"Harry Potter- Ravenclaw"Chapter 3: Adventurer Lockhart? Fraud Lockhart?
"The Chamber of Secrets was opened fifty years ago?" Lockhart gripped his quill so tightly his knuckles turned white. That long-dormant curiosity, nearly snuffed out by fear and failure, suddenly flared to life. He needed to know more about the Chamber.
He shot a nervous glance at the door—was it just his imagination, or did it seem to tremble on its hinges?
Slowly, he wrote: "What was the monster inside?"
What the monster was doesn't matter anymore. It may already have been destroyed. If I'm not mistaken, Dumbledore will find a scapegoat, just as he did all those years ago.
"What do you mean?" Lockhart's eyes widened. "Dumbledore found a scapegoat?"
Exactly! Pansy Parkinson was that scapegoat.
Lockhart frowned, recalling, "Snape mentioned Pansy Parkinson too, back then…"
More words unfurled across the page.
I hope Dumbledore and the others haven't come after you. Otherwise, you might end up like me—doing nothing for the sake of self-preservation, waiting for someone else to finally reveal the truth.
Reading this, Lockhart's mind swirled with conspiracies. He scribbled: "What are you implying? What did Dumbledore actually do?"
Mr. Snape, you could also visit the trophy room on the fourth floor. There's a Special Services plaque with my name on it—a reward for my compliance.
At the time, I was just a naïve child, easily manipulated by Dumbledore, and I made a choice I regret to this day—I accused Rubeus Hagrid.
That honor became a torment, a whirlpool I could never escape. I lived in fear that someone would see through it all, that they'd discover I was Dumbledore's accomplice.
I could never forgive myself for what happened to the real victim. So I decided to pay with my life, to show my remorse. But before that, I left behind this diary—to expose Dumbledore's crimes.
Lockhart couldn't help but mutter, "Trapped in the whirlpool of honor…"
Watching the words snake across the page, he felt a pang of empathy—a deep, gnawing agony he knew all too well. Here at Hogwarts, as his fans dwindled and his reputation faded, that same torment only grew sharper.
A shudder ran through him. Suddenly, he slammed the diary shut. "No! I can't afford more trouble. I need to get out—now!"
Just as he was about to toss the diary into his trunk and make a run for it, new words bled across the page.
Gilderoy Snape… sir? I remember Pansy Parkinson telling me about a professor named Gilderoy Lockhart.
Quite the remarkable professor, apparently. So many books written, and yet—never once did he demonstrate real magic in class…
Reading those lines, every hair on Lockhart's body stood on end. A chill ran down his spine. He grabbed the diary, trying to tear it in half.
It wouldn't budge. He stabbed at it with a letter opener, splattered it with ink—nothing left a mark.
Mr. Lockhart, those books must have brought you a tidy sum… Do you really think you can escape unscathed?
Maybe the adventurer Lockhart from your stories could pull that off. But a fraud Lockhart—barely more magical than a Squib—don't you think that's a bit optimistic?
Frantic, Lockhart scrawled: "What do you want from me?"
I'm not your enemy, Professor Lockhart. I can help Pansy Parkinson become the true Heir of Slytherin. And I can help you—make you a proper wizard again.
"Really?"
Just a drop of blood on the diary, and we'll be able to communicate much more clearly.
Lockhart's lips trembled. His eyes darted between the letter opener and the diary.
With a desperate resolve, he wiped the sweat from his brow, pressed the blade to his finger, and let a bead of blood fall onto the page.
Instantly, a dizzying sensation swept over him. He was falling—tumbling through pages, spinning through a swirl of strange colors and shifting shadows.
At the end of that kaleidoscopic tunnel stood a figure. As he steadied himself, the figure's features sharpened into focus.
A handsome young man with black hair and dark eyes, clad in Hogwarts robes, radiating a chilling poise and composure.
"Mr. Lockhart… so this is why you can't use magic?" The youth snapped his fingers, and a mirror shimmered into existence before Lockhart.
He stared—and screamed in horror.
"Who is that? What have you done to me? Let me out of here!"
The figure in the mirror looked like a stained-glass mannequin—every inch of skin a patchwork, grotesquely twisted and fractured.
But what truly terrified Lockhart was the gaping fissure running down the figure's center.
It looked fresh, the edges twitching and writhing as if struggling to knit themselves closed.
"So that's it…" The young man snapped his fingers again, and the mirror vanished. "Mr. Lockhart, calm yourself and listen."
"You stuffed other people's memories into your own mind. But because you couldn't merge them, your magical talent withered even further. You became a stitched-together monster."
No longer confronted by that monstrous reflection, Lockhart managed to steady his breathing, though his voice still shook. "How… how do you know all this?"
The young man's smile was almost indulgent. "So? Ready to talk now? Want to go further? For example… erasing everyone who knows your secret?"
After lunch, Wyzett and Luna made their way out of the castle, one after the other.
Wyzett appeared to be carrying a pot of Mandrakes, but in truth, he was using a wandless, wordless Levitation Charm to float the pot alongside him. It hardly took any effort at all.
Luna led the way, her wand dancing like a carefree butterfly, sweeping the snow to either side and clearing a golden path.
The endless drizzle at Hogwarts had finally passed, and winter wasted no time in taking over—snowflakes tumbled from the sky, blanketing the castle in thick, sparkling white.
After the storm, the sun burst forth, eager and unrestrained.
It fought its way through the lingering clouds, sending shafts of golden light slicing through the sky.
Sunlight spilled onto the ground, glinting off the snowbanks on either side of the path, turning them into twin rivers of gold.
Every so often, Luna would lift her wand, plucking a few brilliantly colored leaves from the "golden mountains."
If the leaves were hidden treasures, then Luna was a Niffler with a nose for magic—always the first to spot a glimmer, dig it up, and slip it into her pocket…
🔥 Want to read the next 50+ chapters RIGHT NOW?
💎 Patreon members get instant access!
⚡ Limited-time offer currently running...
👉 [Join on - patreon.com/GoldenLong]